So what, exactly, does one do with all the wedding things from the first marriage?

Okay, so I’m leaving room here, for another one, you know, just on the off chance it occurs. But still. My question remains - my sister is getting married in November, and while I’m thrilled for her? It’s also dredging up all this stuff that I cannot seem to get a handle on. Like now that we’re ordering D some engraved wedding champagne flutes of her own, the same kind she ordered for me and B, and decided she wanted too, my other sister calls. To ask me to (and I shit you not) dig out my glasses, so she can duplicate the script, and how the date was. She’s got all these questions - how tall are the glasses, and how heavy? What does it look like, with both of our names on there? Should we actually write out the and in between their names, or use the ampersand?

I’m totally gobsmacked. One, that I could lay my hands on the box in which they live. Two, that I’ve not smashed them into smitherines, like nearly everything else he’s broken in my life. I’m standing, on the cell phone, in the kitchen, this box opened on the stove, staring into them, with hands shaking - and I don’t want to touch them. As though they’re contaminated. Naturally, I cannot answer her, for both the enormous lump in my throat, and because the damn script is hidden by this stupid fucking cardboard flap, so I’ve no choice but to take them out.

Sigh.

I did the right thing. I took out the glasses. I gave her the info. And now, with them still wrapped snuggly in their box, with this bright white, virginal pre-wedding-looking ribbon on it, I’m sitting here, trying to recall how to breathe.

Really, a littlle anger does wonders warming the cockles of my heart, setting it pumping as though I’ve just run a marathon, and while I’m well on my way to an anxiety attack that might just, if I’m lucky, kill me, the seeing red thing just might save me.

Still. What am I supposed to do with all this shit? The wedding photos. The stupid fucking glasses. The wedding dress, which is still hanging in my closet. The left over invites, Hunter and Riley’s little outfits and shoes. Sure, they’re all packed up, neatly in this big, old fashioned suitcase, but what do I do with the stuff that really, I’ll NEVER use? Drinking out of the toilet (or communal water bowl, depending on the company) is a more likely prospect than those glasses ever reaching my lips.

Part of me though, can’t abide the thought of tossing them, like I’m denying that my marriage ever occued - which obviously, as I’m making a set of lawyers very wealthy, in did indeed occur - and you cannot undo history. Nor, evidently, can you unetch the glasseware.